


black and white and a million colors of love

by godmolly



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes (BBC Radio), johnlock - Fandom
Genre: M/M, MusicInstructor!Sherlock, Piano!John, but will they be in the end????/, mary n john r dating lol, who knowz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 13:43:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12191058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godmolly/pseuds/godmolly
Summary: prompt: heyy so could u write something like sherlock is a music teacher and john comes in one day bc he wants to learn how to play an instrument for his girlfriend mary cuz they got in a fight or smthn but john ends up falling for sherlock over the course of their lessons thanks also i love your blog so much:,,) thank u so much, for the praise n the prompt it means so much to me ahhhhh this was fun 2 write(title adapted from the Maria Cristina Mena quote)tumblr





	black and white and a million colors of love

**Lesson 1**

Her words echoed through John’s mind, bouncing off the sides of his skull and sinking into every part of his brain.

Their first fight.

Well. First  _ major _ fight. First fight with tense tones and clenched fists and swearing. First fight without a lazy smile at the end, ensuring it was just a minor disagreement.

They were a couple. Couples fought all the time, John knew that. It was common, not even unhealthy, to have spits about a few things.

But this.

He remembered it all, much too clearly. How Mary’s voice had tightened and she, never one for raising her voice if she didn’t have to, had shaken with the effort it took to try to see reason. How when she had grabbed her bag he saw clearly the curved red marks on the palm of her hand, indented by her fingernails.

“I need some time to clear my mind. We’ll see each other when we’re ready.”

And then the door was slammed shut. John blinked.

The first night alone was spent wide awake, with muscles stressed and hair disheveled after he had run his calloused hand through it a couple too many times.

It was horrible. There was an awfully prominent blank spot on the left side of the bed. She had packed her toiletries and some clothes, leaving emptiness in John’s closet and bathroom. They hadn’t even moved in together, and yet she was as much of a presence in his small flat as he was.

John wondered how Mary was doing. If she was feeling the same hole, coldness in her side, as he was. Or maybe anger had flared up, so hot it took John’s place completely.

Needless to say, the second day was harder.

Now that all the initial emotions had been tamed, John faced the huge problem of how to make it up to Mary.

He hadn’t been completely right in the argument, he knew that. Neither had she.

But this wasn’t about who was right. Not now. Now it was about showing Mary that he realized what he had done wrong, showing her how much he cared for her.

_ How? _

 

And that was how he found himself outside apartment 221, craning his neck to look quizzically at his surroundings to see if there was any sort of hint towards what could possibly be inside.

The ad online had been found in a sort of desperation. He had gone through multiple pages on Google on ‘how to apologize to your girlfriend,’ but all of them seemed too … insincere. As if they could be done to anyone. Not personal things, ones that would really make an impact.

John had, in a moment of ‘why didn’t I think of this sooner’ clarity, gone into the list he kept of things Mary liked.

_ Piano _ .

She loved the piano. He remembered their first date: it had been to a piano concert. He wasn’t exactly sure if it had been a date, because she had planned to go with another friend who had cancelled and invited John as a last-minute replacement.

(Now that he thought of it, none of their dates in at least the first three months of them being together would really be considered dates.)

But that wasn’t the point. Mary loved the piano, and John had found a way to apologize sincerely.

He immediately looked up where he could find a piano teacher, and the closest one to where he was had been a guy named Sherlock Holmes (what kind of name was that, anyway?).

The moment he knocked on the door of apartment B, it swung open on its own to reveal a mess.

The first things he noticed were the papers. Stacked up on one another, filing around and piling up on what seemed to be every available surface.

“Hello? Mr. Holmes?” John asked. It didn’t look like anyone was here.

He was about to pull out his phone and check the address when there was a (loud, alarming) crash and some (equally loud and alarming) swearing from another room that made him flinch.

And then a figure emerged from the doorway, looking a tad bit disheveled.

Well. ‘A tad bit’ was an understatement, but John was trying to not judge on first impressions.

Sherlock Holmes’ first impression was of a wild head of curly hair. For a brief moment, that was all John could see. And then he looked up, and John caught sight of pale skin and piercing eyes.

_ Who wears a suit in their own house? _

Now that John could see him clearly, he saw the man had the air of someone who would—someone who sipped champagne and looked out their window while  _ lounging _ , one leg crossed, ankle to knee while leaning back luxuriously. John bet he  _ sauntered _ places instead of walking—and John remembered his New Year’s Resolution, and erased all that from his mind.

_ He’s more than what meets the eye _ .

“I’m John,” John said, awkwardly holding his hand out for a handshake, and, upon promptly realizing that Mr. Holmes was too far away, giving a half-wave instead. “Um, I read your advertisement. Online. I want to learn the piano.”

“Ah. Yes, I think I have some music you’ll find useful.”

“Useful?”

Mr. Holmes snapped his fingers. “Apology music. I have that. Do you know how to read sheet music?”

John barely had time to process  _ how this guy knew what he needed _ before realizing no, he didn’t know how to read sheet music.

He actually didn’t know the first thing about playing the piano, he told Mr. Holmes.

That’s fine, Mr. Holmes told John.

This was probably going to be a bigger investment than he bargained for. But, looking at Sherlock Holmes, he thought it could also end up being very interesting.

 

—

 

**Lesson 2**

_ All cars eat gas. Good boys do fine always. F-A-C-E. Every good boy does fine. _

He tried to keep those in mind. Mr. Holmes would hand him sheets filled with notes. He’d hand them back with each note’s name printed underneath. The time passed in silence, sometimes accompanied by Mr. Holmes’ stare (one that, unsettlingly, made John feel like he was being X-rayed, like all his thoughts were being broadcasted to the world) cutting through him.

Mr. Holmes was a very fast teacher. John thought he was better suited to teach people who already knew what they were doing and just needed to refine their skills, but who was he to complain? The sooner he learned, the sooner he and Mary could make up, and the sooner his flat would stop seeming so empty.

 

—

 

**Lesson 3**

 

John had gotten a keyboard the previous night. He hadn’t started learning the actual keys yet, but. He’d be prepared. And he  _ had _ played around with them, marvelling in how the music seemed to fill the silence that came with living alone. It wasn’t as lonely as he thought, even if what he played couldn’t even be described as music because it sounded so disjointed.

Sharps, flats. Crescendos, diminuendos. Lines, lines, lines on a page.

John thought of Mary as he labelled the notes.

 

—

 

**Lesson 4**

 

Mr. Holmes handed John a piece of sheet music.

“I think you’ll want to learn this. For your girlfriend.”

John looked at it. “What does it sound like?”

Mr. Holmes cast an undecipherable look. (Not that that was out of the ordinary: John had more trouble and a lot less success reading him than he did reading notes.) And without a word, seated himself at the piano bench, elegantly adjusting his suit as he placed his slender hands on the keys.

He didn’t need the sheet music. Or his vision. John watched in awe as he closed his eyes and delicately began to play, starting off light and growing heavier, more intense, saturated with feeling, and it was a little hard for John to comprehend because his made-of-stone piano teacher sure could convey a lot of emotion. (John didn’t even know his  _ age _ , for God’s sake. He was impossible to get to know.)

When he finished, John realized his mouth was open a bit and quickly closed it, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat.

“Amazing.”

And there it was: a hint of a smile. Like he didn’t need to hear John’s praise, but enjoyed it nonetheless.

John thought he looked better with a smile.

“How long have you been playing for?”

Mr. Holmes shrugged. “About three weeks.”

Definitely better with a smile.

 

—

 

**Lesson 5**

 

“Alright John,” Mr. Holmes said, clapping his hands together. “You’ll be matching the keys to their notes.”

His hands were warm when they guided John’s to the correct keys—“Here’s middle C.”—which surprised John. Something about him screamed  _ made of ice _ .

Apparently it didn’t extend to everything, because that day John noticed a little bit of warmth in his eyes as he watched John hesitantly play each key individually.

Perhaps it was the rarity of the small grin playing at Mr. Holmes’ lips that made John smile to himself.

 

—

 

**Lesson 10**

 

It wasn’t  _ strange _ , per se.

Okay, it was a little strange. John had a strong dislike for anything mundane, anything that stayed the same from day to day.

But somehow, making the small trek to apartment 221B Baker Street had become a vital part of his routine. (And in just a few days, too—it definitely was strange.)

John thought nothing strange of it. Maybe it was a good idea to have something constant in his life, seeing as he was down one.

Speaking of which. He had seen Mary earlier. At the supermarket. He had ducked behind an aisle before she could catch sight of him too.

It was a little strange. He didn’t feel quite as warm at the sight of her as he usually did.

He supposed it was the fight. It was all feeling a bit cold lately. Except in Mr. Holmes’ apartment, most likely something to do with the lively music always pouring through.

 

—

 

**Lesson 12**

 

Mr. Holmes had been on the phone when John came in. (The door was never locked, and recently it had ceased to even be closed. It made John wonder.)

“No, I can’t come and do your job for you. Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that I have,” he paused as he noticed John, “other obligations? Find someone ten percent as good, they’ll be able to do the job!” He whipped the phone from his ear, a faint voice still coming from the speakers, and angrily hung up.

John hadn’t ever thought you could angrily hang up a smartphone—a telephone, sure, with the satisfying  _ clang! _ that came from slamming it into the holder.

“Bad day, Mr. Holmes?” he asked sympathetically. He knew how it felt.

“Call me Sherlock.” And he offered no other response.

 

—

 

**Lesson 17**

 

It struck John one day at how good of a teacher Sherlock really was. In just a couple weeks, he had gone from not even knowing the piano was a string instrument to knowing how to play two pieces.

He felt like his chest was glowing whenever he and Sherlock made eye contact now.

 

—

 

**Lesson 18**

 

John knew he could call Mary— _ should _ call Mary—but something kept holding him back.

She hadn’t made any attempt to reach out. (He hadn’t either, but he was planning a  _ surprise _ , he couldn’t just ruin the effect.)

He should get better at the piano before they saw each other, anyway.

 

—

 

**Lesson 19**

 

Sherlock placed a new sheet of music before John.

“What’s this?”

“A new piece. I think it’d be good for you to learn.”

John shrugged and went along with it, placing his hands on the now familiar black-and-white keys and starting.

The first run through, he couldn’t help but notice that it sounded a little … empty.

_ I can’t say it doesn’t fit, though. _

“Play it again.”

And John didn’t turn around, didn’t question it.

When the sound of a violin joined him, it didn’t feel weird, not for a second. It felt like the piece was written for two. (Which, John supposed, it probably was.)

_ We sound so good together. _

“Mr. Hol—Sherlock. How long have you played the violin? Two months?”

“Over ten years.”

Sherlock remained an enigma.

 

—

 

**Lesson 20**

 

Well, not a total enigma, John realized. He did, after all, know a couple of things about the man.

Like how he always leaves the door knocker crooked when he closes his door.

And how he likes his coffee black with two sugars.

And he sometimes has to leave their lessons cut short, speeding out with a coat and a scarf and a rushed goodbye, complaining about someone named Graham. (John never blames him.)

And he’s really good at Operation. (Like,  _ really _ good. It’s almost funny, as Sherlock seemed the last person to want to play board games.)

 

—

 

**Lesson 26**

 

John’s phone rang on top of the piano, making it rattle against the polished wood. He paused his song to check it. It was Mary.

John continued playing.

 

—

 

**Lesson 31**

 

“Look, John.” Mary leaned over the table, a look that John had never seen before plastered across her face. “Correct me if I’m wrong.

“We aren’t exactly right for each other.”

John glanced up from the dregs of his coffee. (Black. Two sugars. It needed cream, he thought.) Surprised, but not devastated. Not even sad, exactly.

“It seems you’ve come to this conclusion yourself,” she said, matter-of-factly, as if they were discussing the latest news or the weather tomorrow rather than the self-destructive end of their ten-month relationship. “It didn’t feel as empty as it should.”

“I felt the same way,” John said, throat dry.

“We needed closure, though. So good day, John,” Mary said, pushing her chair back and brushing off her skirt. “I hope we can remain friends.”

John watched her go. Surprised, but less so now.

He supposed he should have noticed something was wrong before now. If he didn’t feel anything except like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, something must have definitely been wrong.

 

—

 

**Lesson 32**

 

“She broke up with you.” Unlike usual, John could hear the emotion coloring Sherlock’s voice. Shock. And confusion. “Why are you still here?”

“I like being here,” John replied easily. He, trying his best to ignore how Sherlock’s pale face had tinged just the faintest bit red, shuffled through the papers until he reached the first song they had played together.

It was, by far, his favorite.

 

—

 

**Lesson 33**

 

John could sense things changing.

A less observant person might not have; the differences were so subtle that, had John not been a part of them, he wouldn’t have.

But they were still there. How John would stay around and just talk for a couple minutes before and after. How Sherlock would offer to make him coffee, and stand just a little bit closer than was normal.

It felt nice, to know that he wasn’t the only one.

Less lonely.

 

—

 

**Lesson 36**

 

It was only when Sherlock suggested they play a duet on the piano that John realized what the warm feeling in his chest meant.

It had a lot to do with how Sherlock was sitting so close on the bench, with his impeccable posture and marble face and steady hands, all of which John had believed unbreakable until witnessing them crack with his own two eyes, witnessing  _ him _ crack with his own two eyes.

The moments where Sherlock wasn’t a piano instructor, wasn’t the elegant violinist, wasn’t whomever he was to Graham on the phone (John still hadn’t asked), those were the best. The moments where Sherlock was just Sherlock were his favorites.

John carved out a little place, just above his heart, for all those moments. For the man who made them.

It was crazy, wasn’t it? That this turned out so … well, he wasn’t exactly sure how it turned out. After all, it wasn’t quite over yet.

John wanted to find out how their story turned out. How  _ they _ turned out. So he reached over and took one of Sherlock’s large hands in his own, effectively pulling it from the keys.

It didn’t even feel like the music had stopped, and perhaps it hadn’t. Perhaps the music all along had been in their heartbeats, pouring out a rhythm for their feet to run, run towards each other.

John leaned forward and couldn’t breathe.

Which of them ended up closing the gap was lost, lost between the sudden contact between them: Sherlock’s hand twisting at the fabric of John’s jeans, John’s hand cupping Sherlock’s jaw, Sherlock’s arm coming around John’s back to press him closer.

Who needed to breathe, anyway?

 

—

 

**Lesson ?**

 

“John?”

“I know it’s not as good as your piano, but I wanted this to be somewhere other than your place,” John said, gesturing to the keyboard, then pointing to the armchair he wanted Sherlock to sit in.

John sat at the piano seat and, after clearing his throat and shifting uncomfortably, before placing his hands on the keys and starting to play.

If he hadn’t been listening, he wouldn’t’ve caught the small intake of breath behind him. He smiled to himself, because this is  _ our song _ , and he and Sherlock were an  _ us _ now and look at how far he’s come in so little time.

 

~Lucinda


End file.
